Breakfast of Champions
by DancingGrimm
Summary: John has made breakfast. Sherlock does not wish to eat it. John offers an alternative option. Pure porn.


Breakfast of Champions

Sherlock was rudely awoken by clattering in the kitchen and, not wanting to miss out on whatever John was up to, he dragged himself out of bed. The sheets stuck to him in places and he winced as various aches made themselves known to him.

He hadn't stayed awake long enough last night to put his pyjamas on and, as he crossed the room, he caught a glimpse of his own pale, nude body in the mirror; he looked a wreck.

His hair had been pulled and fondled into complete disarray, and patches of his chest and flanks were pinked by friction. There were reddened marks on his hips where John's hands had been, and he could just make out the half-moons of bite marks on his shoulders. He was glad the mirror wasn't long enough to show him his thighs, which he was sure must be in a real state.

He snorted at his reflection, smoothed his hair down as best he could, and slipped on his dressing gown.

John was in the kitchen messing about with a saucepan, damp-haired and rosy from the shower, wearing only pyjama bottoms. There was a stodgy sort of smell in the air and the radio was playing something muted and talky. The jar of honey was out on the table, which caught Sherlock's attention. He liked honey, but John hadn't touched the toaster, so it was unlikely that Sherlock's breakfast of choice was on the cards.

"Morning," John said perkily, turning to run his eyes over Sherlock. "Sleep well?"

"Mph," Sherlock replied, and dropped heavily into one of the chairs. He hadn't made a very good job of the knot on his dressing gown, and the garment flopped half-open around him.

"Nice view," John commented, glancing near-coquettishly over his shoulder.

Sherlock grunted again.

John took two bowls out of the cupboard (presumptuous, Sherlock thought) and doled out the contents of his saucepan between them, then settled down in the chair at right angles to Sherlock's and placed one bowl before each of them.

Sherlock examined the contents; beige and gloopy and beige and lumpy and beige and warm and beige. Porridge.

He pushed the bowl away and leaned back in his chair.

"Come on Sherlock," John said gently, moving the jar of honey into Sherlock's eye-line. "We need to keep our strength up, eh?"

Sherlock turned up his nose.

"Sherlock," John said, a touch more firmly. "You haven't consumed anything but tea since mid-morning yesterday, and we were running around the city all afternoon, then up half the bloody night. Your body needs food. Eat it."

Sherlock gave him a glare, but John was too busy sprinkling raisins – _raisins!_ - over his own porridge to notice.

A minute or two passed, while John munched steadily on his dull breakfast and the play on the radio droned on about such-and-such having had an affair with so-and-so and oh! what would they tell the children, and so on.

Sherlock sighed, deeply disappointed with his morning after.

"For fuck's sake, Sherlock, just eat it," John said around a mouthful of porridge, and this time when Sherlock glared at him, he had the decency to pay attention and be damn well glared at.

"I don't want it," Sherlock said simply, and to illustrate his point, he pushed the bowl away by another fraction of an inch.

John frowned and swallowed his mouthful. Then he put his spoon down and sat back in his chair, staring at Sherlock steadily.

Sherlock bristled. "I don't care what you say," he informed John lightly. "I'm not going to eat it. It's _beige_!"

John continued to stare at him, his gaze cool and assessing, and Sherlock couldn't help but think of when John had looked at him that way last night. He wasn't going to cave in though, and he _certainly_ wasn't going to get turned-

'Alright then," John said, his voice perfectly calm. "It's okay Sherlock, really."

Sherlock felt his shoulders go tense as John slid his chair back from the table a little way.

"Though if you aren't going to eat your breakfast," John continued, still calm, "I'm sure there's something else you can do with your mouth." He gestured at the floor in front of him.

Sherlock bristled. The kitchen floor was cold and hard and probably had bits of crumbs all over it. And John was still being bloody presumptuous. What made him think that Sherlock would be inclined to pleasure him after being given _porridge_?

His cock was already half hard, though, outlined nicely by the drab grey-green cotton of his pyjama bottoms. Sherlock stared at it for a moment, then got to his feet and moved into the narrow space between John and the table. It was a bit too small a gap for him to get down to his knees in.

John reached around Sherlock's side, scooped up another spoonful of porridge, delivered it into his mouth, and glanced up at Sherlock's face as he chewed. "Well?" he asked.

Sherlock scowled at him. Then he had a brain wave and slipped off his mostly unfastened dressing gown, and dropped it to pool on the floor in front of John's feet. Scrunching up a bit, he crouched and then shuffled backwards so that he was mostly underneath the table, his knees resting reasonably comfortably on the pad of dressing gown.

John spread his legs, and lifted his hips when Sherlock reached up to pull down his pyjama bottoms. He gave Sherlock a slight smile, then sat up straight and put one elbow on the top of the table, as if it were a normal breakfast time. Sherlock scowled again and turned his attention to John's cock.

He slipped his hand around it and felt it swell a little more; not fully hard yet, but well on its way. With John sitting bolt upright he had less room to manoeuvre than usual, but he was sure he was up to the task. He rubbed the shaft gently and pulled the foreskin back from the fat, ruddy head with his fingers, then leaned in, took a moment to get comfortable with his forearms resting on John's thighs, and took the tip into his mouth.

John's taste, Sherlock had been pleased to discover, varied slightly depending on a number of factors, including what he ate. He didn't like to think what porridge would do to the flavour of his lover's come, but for the time being, the little gems of fluid that Sherlock's tongue dabbed up tasted rich and bitter and promising. He leaned down and drew John in deeper, getting his mouth comfortable around him, working the thick shaft with his hand. He eased down a little at a time, letting saliva pool inside his mouth, feeling John get nicely slick, feeling the pulse and the heat of him, and finally settling in to suck in earnest, bobbing his head and slurping deeply, just the way John liked it.

John gave a loud hum of approval and squeezed Sherlock's shoulder. Then Sherlock heard a sort of chiming noise from up above him and gave a start. John grabbed hold of his hair before he could pull off, and Sherlock regained his rhythm, but not before he'd realised what he'd heard; it had been the chime of spoon against crockery. John was still eating that blasted porridge! The very nerve! Did he not have any appreciation for what Sherlock was doing here?

John kept steadily eating though, while Sherlock sucked and stroked, and by the time he was steadily drooling pre-come into Sherlock's mouth, he gave a pleased sigh and leaned back in his chair patting his tummy, breakfast apparently done with. It gave Sherlock a bit more space to work, and he leaned further forward, taking John's cock as deep as he could at that angle, until his lips bumped his own knuckles and the glans was nuzzling the opening of his throat. John moaned pleasantly, his thighs twitching under Sherlock's arms, and after a minute or two more, he was showing signs of being ready to come.

Sherlock's jaw and knees were starting to ache and, as much as he was looking forward to John's orgasm, he was about ready to be done, when John suddenly, unexpectedly, reached down, took Sherlock's head in his hands and pulled him off his cock.

"Wha-" Sherlock managed, but his tongue wasn't up to much speech after all that work. John didn't respond; he just wrapped his own hand as far as it would go over the one that Sherlock still had clutched around his shaft and began to stroke, wanking himself off with his lover's larger hand. He smiled at Sherlock with narrowed, sleepy eyes, but Sherlock was only peripherally aware of it. He was watching John's red, dripping cock head sliding in the circle of their fingers, watching the thick folds of his foreskin roll and unroll.

It wasn't long before John was tensing and gasping, right on the edge, and Sherlock wondered for a second if John was going to come on his face. They hadn't done that yet and he wasn't sure if he'd enjoy it. However, John had enough presence of mind, evidently, to snatch the empty bowl from the table and hold it in exactly the right spot to catch every last drop of his come as it surged out of him.

He thumped the bowl back onto the table with a pleased sigh, and Sherlock glared up at him.

"Your turn now," John told him, unperturbed. "Go on."

Sherlock nodded, then curled forwards to rest his forehead against John's sweaty stomach, and grasped his own cock with the hand that had been holding John's. With John's hands rubbing at his shoulders and upper back, John's legs tucked around him in a sort of hug, John's soft voice whispering encouragement to him, it didn't take him long to bring himself off, and his own semen ended up making streaks on the already sticky floor.

John gave him a minute to get his brain back in order, then gave him a gentle push to make him sit up on his heels. He reached up to the table again and picked up the bowl he had used to catch his semen...

It wasn't the empty bowl actually, Sherlock saw now. It was the full one that had been at Sherlock's place. John held it on his lap and Sherlock could see the gobs of come, glistening slightly on the congealing surface of the porridge.

John took up his spoon and stirred it into the porridge, adding a slight hint of lustre to the beige. Then he scooped up a bite-sized blob of the mixture and proffered it to Sherlock. "Here," he said simply.

That was disgusting! Sherlock couldn't imagine _why_ John thought that that would make him want to eat the wretched stuff.

Though, of course, he gulped down every spoonful like it was ambrosia.

::

I felt like writing porn, so...I did! There's efficiency for you.

Hope you enjoyed it. If you did, please remember that I heart feedback :)


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